


The Seam

by beschleunigte



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: AFAB reader - Freeform, F/M, Grinding, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Teasing, Vaginal Sex, nobody hates me more than me right now
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-21
Updated: 2017-02-21
Packaged: 2018-09-26 00:10:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9853109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beschleunigte/pseuds/beschleunigte
Summary: To be fair, it was the clumsiest either of you had been all night, but it was worth the laugh and the way his grip on you tightened, if only for a second.Like he was helping to hold you together, almost. Did he know that he did that?In which the Leville learns more than a road trip ever could.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I HAVEN'T EVEN PLAYED THIS GAME. I DON'T EVEN OWN A PS4. I HATE MY FRIENDS AND MYSELF AND ESPECIALLY GLADIO?????? WHO LET HIM BE LIKE THIS, HONESTLY.

All things considered, a room in the Leville was probably the least _and_ most suspicious place for the two of you to be. Least, because at least no one would unzip the tent and happen upon whatever embrace you happened to be caught in. Most, because, as Noctis had made it a point to tell you enough times, Gladiolus Amicitia never— _ever_ —passed up on an opportunity to go camping.

To be fair, the number of people surprised was probably zero. Scratch that, it was _definitely_ zero. Because what had started with happenstance shifted over the weeks to friendly conversations, to visits, to the twining of fingers, to a kiss. And another. And a third, so desperate and hazy that you couldn't quite remember just when he'd nudged you up onto the hood of the Regalia.

("It still needed a christening," Gladio had told you, with a breathy laugh that made you glad you were sitting down.)

Still, he made for good company beyond the... physicality of it all. He'd accompany you to some of the shops, invite you to his camp to read or talk. Frankly, it wasn't exactly what you were expecting of a bulky, scar-riddled guy who was a good foot taller than you, but you weren't about to complain. It was kind of sweet, really, and you welcomed the twinkle in his eye when he talked about his sister, or the way he'd pull you into his lap without a word, always ready to let you go at the slightest protest. Always offering respect and affection without your asking for it.

Maybe that was part of the reason why, after a particularly tense back-and-forth that had him tugging you close to straddle his hips and whispering words that you honestly hadn't registered, you'd asked if you could get "out of here." At least he seemed to understand that "out of here" meant somewhere a little more private than a shared tent or the back seat of a car, and he took you by the hand and led the way out.

Which was why you were here at all, sitting up in bed, clothes scattered over the floor save for Gladio's tank top. You'd pulled it on once you'd had a moment to breathe—and really, you hadn't _had_ a moment before then. He might have taken a slower pace, but the guy was certainly good at what he did.

You couldn't help but notice the way he smiled at you from the other side of the bed, propped up on one elbow with the sheets pooling at his waist. "You look good in my clothes," he said—the first thing to break the silence since you'd finished. (You'd kind of elected not to count the " _Wow_ " you'd let slip before he even had a chance to pull out. Or the laugh, at once confident and relieved, that rumbled in his throat in response.)

You laughed, picking at the hem, and tried to do something to tame your hair—and failed, mostly. "I'm not trying to."

"That's the thing. You don't have to."

There he went again, beyond the physical. And you never quite knew how to place him. One moment he had you hazy and reeling, needing what you never had before and thought you never would, and the next, he was all tenderness, reaching for you through the haze to give you something solid. You'd never been able to put it into concrete words, for all the stories you and he had ever heard about things like this—and so it was good that no one had ever really asked you to. And in spite of it all—in spite of the fact that something like this was probably _meant_ to leave you speechless—Gladio was still watching you like he really wanted to try and read you. Like he knew you were trying to wax poetic in a hotel bed. Like he knew there was something poetic about that at all.

"C'mere," he mumbled, muscle and ink rippling along his skin as he shifted onto his back and tugged you on top of him. It wasn't a perspective you'd gotten to take just yet (and from the heat and rigidity of it all, you were starting to think it was one you'd _hope_ to take fairly soon), but he looked like he only wanted to breathe for a while. The smile on his face melted into something more serene, and his hands moved to find yours, fingers lacing together, supporting the rest of your weight. "You okay?"

If hearts were anything like vials, yours had probably just popped the cork and spilled all its warmth into the rest of you. "Yeah," you told him, pressing into the spaces between his knuckles and letting your smile match his. You couldn't say you knew very much about first times, but this couldn't be a bad point of reference. "What about you?"

"Never better." For a moment it seemed like the smile was plastered on Gladio's face, like it didn't really reach his eyes. Instead, he spoke with his hands, stroking yours with his thumbs, finding purchase on your waist, holding you steady when you lost your balance and slammed your palms on either side of his head. To be fair, it was the clumsiest either of you had been all night, but it was worth the laugh and the way his grip on you tightened, if only for a second.

Like he was helping to hold you together, almost. Did he know that he did that?

"You overthinking again?" he asked, before you even had the _chance_ to overthink. His fingers slipped under the tank top, rubbing circles into the small of your back, and there was no way he could have missed how you bit your lip in response. The triumphant smirk that flitted across his lips was reaction enough.

"Not... _over_ thinking," you tried to insist.

"So just regular thinking."

"I'm always regular thinking."

"I know," he said, as if he meant to say _that's what I like about you_ instead. "Wish I knew what was going on inside of you sometimes."

You choked back a laugh, weak though it was. "No, you don't." At least, he probably didn't want to. Or shouldn't. Too many pieces to put together, and you didn't even know if they all matched up, or what kind of shape or picture they were supposed to make.

"Why wouldn't I?" 

"I dunno, I just..." How heavy was silence supposed to hang? And were you cutting through it right when you took his hands? Not that he seemed to mind—they went near-limp in your grip, and you nudged his fingertips to line up along the dip in your spine. You'd done something like it when he first walked you to bed—guided his hands to the buttons of your shirt so he could undo them one by one. (Of course, just like then, you forgot to breathe, but that was a different story.)

"Sometimes it feels like you could pull me open at the seams, right here, and I don't know if you'd love every little thing that's inside, or be afraid of it."

You hadn't meant to blurt it out like that, so fast, so thoughtless, in so many _stupid_ words, and now you couldn't tell what weighed more in the distance between you. It had to be the bed, and the nakedness, and those damned patient, scarred, _loving_ hands of his. Nothing else could have pulled it out of you. You were sure of it.

But Gladio was pressing his fingers against your skin now, nails biting down as if he really were pulling you apart, no beats lost in all that weight. And he was looking at you like all the poetry inside you came alive. And he said, "Love it. All of it. Every time."

You hated him.

Or, more specifically, you hated how much he made you love him.

(Of course you didn't. You never could. You both knew it.)

Before you knew it, he was tugging you down to kiss you again—with his mouth, with his hands, with everything in him. Nails and calluses grazed your skin, fingers twisted and brushed your hair aside, and his breath fanned out against your neck when you pulled back. "I want to show you," he said, practically breathed it out, as if he hadn't just done exactly that. He seemed to lie somewhere between curious and pleading and eager to lay a claim, even if he made it a point to never own you. "Let me."

"Okay," you whispered, and he managed a smile before he rolled you onto your stomach, pulling the tank top off again. Carefully, he coaxed your fingers to curl into the sheets, and you could only move or look around so much before he gripped your waist and held you in place.

"Don't," Gladio said, a jagged sigh between your shoulder blades; the feeling of his breath was enough to make you shiver and squirm, and he only held you tighter. "Just let me do this." 

You opened your mouth to insist, but you choked on your words instead at the feeling of an open-mouthed kiss against the base of your neck. And a second. And a third, all the way down your spine. Right along the seam. "Don't," he said, a hum against your skin as your back bowed and you pressed your lips into a firm line of silence, and one of his hands covered one of yours. "Don't be quiet."

As if to prove some kind of point, he held your wrist down and flattened his tongue, teasing the softest moan from your lips as he dragged it back up, praising your compliance before latching his mouth onto the crook of your neck. Little by little, he pulled you up onto your knees, flush against his chest, and Six, you wish you had some way to retaliate, return the favor, anything. Anything that wasn't squirming and whining as he nudged your legs apart and nestled between them, no matter how sure you were that he was enjoying every second of it.

"You're still wet," he murmured, and your breath hitched.

"You tend to do that to me," you shot back, and he laughed into your ear and rolled his hips. He wasn't even inside you yet—the slide of his cock against you was _killing_ you—and you were already starting to buckle, rocking back against him, aching for him in ways you wouldn't be caught dead thinking of in the morning.

"Don't you know how good you are?" His words were a low groan in his throat, a complement to how his arm tightened around you and how the bed creaked under your weight. All you could manage in return was a sigh, knuckles whitening from how tightly you were clutching the sheets, and it earned you another laugh and a kiss to your jaw. "You're amazing," he told you in all that privacy, all that space you claimed. Amazing, and wonderful, and brilliant, and beautiful, a spill of adjectives and appreciation that you couldn't bring yourself to register when he was so carefully building you up like this, learning to touch on every little thing he knew you liked. "How does it feel, baby?" he asked, more a pant than a question as his hand covered yours. "Tell me. Show me—"

" _Fuck._ " You'd been trying to bite it back, for the sake of some kind of dignity of making love, but the feeling was too much. The praising, the teasing, the pulse and throb and ache between your legs. "Fuck, Gladio, _please—_ "

You weren't expecting—or complaining about—the growl that seeped through his lips, every kind of primal as his teeth sank into your shoulder and his hips bucked forward, yanking a cry from your throat. He nursed the bite with his tongue, licking softly as if to apologize, but you were too far gone to care. "Again," you told him, choking on a syllable when he rocked up. "A _gain_ , please—"

"Been reading you, you know," he breathed against the column of your neck; in any other situation, your instinct might have been to hightail it, but there was never anything but good intent hiding in him. "How you're feeling, what you like." Teeth along your jaw, a heated kiss to your cheek, and words that made you crumble under the weight of him when his fingers finally, _finally_ pressed up against your clit. "So I can give you exactly what you want."

There was a domino effect in these kinds of things. A moan of his name from you, a breathed-out curse from him, the rub of callused fingers against soft, slick flesh. A plea, a command, a shudder, a gasp. "Not yet," he mumbled, drunk on the momentum, and you could have sobbed from the way he slowed his pace.

"But Gladio—"

"Not. Yet." The growl was back, and he stopped completely, trailing down the inside of your thigh as he lay on his back, pulling you on top of him. You'd never seen his eyes burn like this before, or felt his fingertips press so hard into flesh and bone; you were starting to hope you'd get to again. "I want to see your pretty face when you come."

Honestly speaking, you almost did, right then and there.

He made quick work of the condom, all but flinging the tiny bottle of lubricant at you in the meantime. And for all everyone said about how boring all this preparation was, you couldn't help but sigh at the way his hand coiled around himself, or at the groan he let out at the sight of you two fingers deep. He was already scrambling to pull you closer, to line up with your entrance, and the press of the tip was enough to have you sliding your hand into his hair, tugging for balance, whimpering questions of why he was taking so long.

Gladio took a moment to answer, all focus on pulling you down, inch by inch, until you were properly seated on him. "I'm inside," he said, voice cracked with need, brows pinched together—whether it was from pleasure or concentration, you didn't care to tell. "Now I'm gonna love every little bit of you."

Even in the way you moved together, there was a balance, fluidity, a give-and-take where you'd only expected to give, to work. Sometimes he helped pull you down onto his length, sometimes he held you in place and jerked up, heels planted into the mattress. There wasn't an exact rhythm to it—there couldn't have been, when you were all sensation instead of coherent thought. Here he was, guiding you, pleasing you, nails dragging down your sides to keep a modest pace, beckoning you down when you whined for more.

"What's the matter, baby girl?" he cooed, brushing your hair from your ear so you could feel every breath, every word seep into your skin, into your blood. "I thought this was what you wanted..."

"Let me— _ah_ —"

He laughed, arms circling around your waist to pull you close, littering kisses along your chest and collarbone. "Gonna have to tell me properly."

You shuddered, thighs tensing on either side of him, fingers curled tight in his hair, and rolled your hips hard, grinding down against his abdomen. And he stopped you, of _course_ he stopped you, left you to drop your head and tremble on top of him and bite back a sob. "I said, you have to _tell_ me."

"Please," you gasped. "Want to ride you, please, Gladio, pleasepleaseplease let me ride you—"

"See?" he murmured. "That's all you had to say..." A grin laced his every word, and his grip on you slackened, and you weren't sure if you sighed in relief or out of need. He nudged you to sit up, tracing patterns over your thighs, thumb occasionally brushing against your clit, praises and sweet words spilling from his tongue. 

And you didn't care if he did it because he knew it'd make you shiver, or if he really meant every word. Because here you were, making patterns of your own out of the scars scattered over his torso, lining every stroke of his tattoo that you could reach, reveling in the scratch of his beard against his palm when you cupped his cheek, tossing your head back when he said, "Look at you. Look at how pretty you look on my cock."

Like he was really in awe of you.

"I love you," you told him, somewhere between babbling and moaning. "I love you, every little bit of you," and you were bent over him again, pressing your mouth to his—and it really was a pressing of mouths more than it was a kiss—and repeating yourself, body short-circuiting, begging to tip over.

"I have," he told you before you came, a curling of the body that had you clenched up and doubled over, muffling your cries with his pillow. A union that had him chasing after you, taking control where you returned it to him, grunting and groaning and scrabbling at those seams. "This whole time, I have."


End file.
